menthol for the id

I hung up the phone and immediately teared up. My inner self began to whine, he didn't even want to keep talking. Another, loftier voice chimed in, come now, people get busy, and you can't live your life on the phone. My Id didn't answer except with a crude gesture and a greater onrush of tears. Voice number three came in calmly and rationally, stopping Super Ego from retorting condescendingly. Come now, my Ego stated, isn't it obvious? It happens this way every month. Just let her be.

Later as I dressed for Jason's wedding reception, my frustration grew at each outfit that looked, quite frankly, appalling on me. I borrowed something from Nora, the worst yet. I walked into her room sobbing. When did I get this fat? She turned and appraised me. Honey, you're probably bloated. All signs (gesturing to the tears) point to it. I nodded and she selected another skirt, A-line instead of cut on the bias. I made sure that my hair was amazing to take focus from my body.

Sunday was no better, a cold adding its merry presence to the Evil One.

That's when Nora gave me the Gift.

It was a menthol tablet that I dropped in the hot water of the shower. Instantly I was swathed in a cloud of minty steam. My skin burned, my sinuses cleared and my eyes watered until I cried. That's when I noticed the music in the background: Dashboard Confessional. I wept until I stepped from the tub and felt not only clean but refreshed. While the emo group sang angrily I towel-dried happily.

The cold went untouched. I am still blowing my nose every few minutes. But the medicine worked for my mood. In fact, I am quite cheerfully enjoying my convalescence. My Id is even being rational.

Well, sort of.

master plan

I have never been ambitious. I thought I naturally had a penchant for contentment. It turns out that I just needed to pick a direction, and then I would run in it. I didn't do well in classes until I chose a major. Now I do fairly decently. I also see how everything I learn ties in to what I want to be when I grow up. Because I know that now too. I want to be a great mom and write whenever I can--fiction, nonfiction, whatever.

But now that I've decided to be a writer, I want to be the best writer I know how. I want to get my master's degree in creative writing from the University of Texas (James Joyce gave them his money!). In order to follow this path in the preferred Energizer Bunny method, I will have to minor, at least, in English. Nothing so easy since most of my electives have stemmed that way anyway.

But yesterday, I received a cruel blow. The English department wants to require one more class than in years previous. One more class added onto my well thought-out graduation plan. Where do I fit it? Next semester, in my 15 credit load? What about Spring and Summer with their 9 credits apiece? I suppose there is always fall. Seventeen credits isn't too bad for a final semester with all 400-level classes. Right? At any rate, I am not staying in Provo an extra semester.

So what do I do? What's the master plan? I don't like that I don't know.

alas, babylon

One of my favorite books, one that I can read over and over, is Alas Babylon by Pat Frank. At the beginning of the book, Randy receives a simple telegram from his brother Mark using their childhood code for danger. Only days later the horizon is lit by multiple mushroom clouds, and the small town of Fort Repose is cut off from the world without an idea of what is going on outside.

Cut to a new TV series airing today. Jericho. A small town in Kansas witnesses multiple mushroom clouds on the horizon and are cut off without information. What will they do? They look like they're going to try to recreate The O.C. without the beach.

If I were Pat Frank, I'd sue. But I'm not. I am, in fact, the next closest plagiarist to them both. I think I am annoyed that the story hits too close to my own. At least mine isn't full of pretty boys who give you the creeps...yet.

happy talk like a pirate day

Talk Like a Pirate Day stems from a long and well-reputed tradition begun upon false premises by none other than nautical expert Dave Barry. I first learned of the holiday in high school, though my love for pirates existed long before. This picture, in truth, was not taken to commemorate this celebration but was a momento of a summer fling. I take this day to remember Cap'n Pete and our love.


. . . and, um, yar.

the passing of ann

Ann Richards, the last REAL governor of Texas, just died. In the article about her death, she was quoted as having said of our dear president/her successor, "Poor George. It's not his fault; he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." We will miss her.

baseball and weddings

After my brother's wedding reception (which is really his wife's reception, which is really for her mother) I am more firmly convinced that I would prefer a park for my own celebrations. A baseball field is the only place where bunting and diamonds are allowable. And, Heather added, what a better place to celebrate "going all the way." At least my sisters made it fun.

pitts

I had a dream last night where I was at a resort with my family and lots of bad things happened, including water rising and swallowing me, the way it used to in my old nightmares. But one thing stuck out to me. I was dating Brad Pitt. Weird. I have many explanations for this entire dream, from images I've seen lately to themes about which I have been thinking. One theory includes Brad being representative of Death (eg. Meet Joe Black). But why, I ask myself, would I want to analyze this when I could just enjoy it? Move over Angelina!

a comprehensive countdown

Work was very productive today. I developed a countdown to all the important dates for the next year. Disclaimer: I only did those dates I could remember off the top of my head. Yes, there are some missing. But not many.

3- Jason's wedding.
7- Ted's Birthday.
11- Ashley's Birthday.
18- Nora's Birthday.
35- Kevin's Birthday.
46 April's Birthday.
66- Veteran's Day.
78- Thanksgiving.
110- Christmas.
116- New Year's Eve.
152- Debi's Birthday.
161- Valentine's Day.
167- Emilie and Janiece's Birthdays.
192- St. Patrick's Day.
199- Alyessa's Birthday.
207- April Fool's Day.
219- Caitie's Birthday.
221- Tax Day.
231- Dad's Birthday.
235- Mom's Birthday.
241- Cinco De Mayo.
244- MY BIRTHDAY!
301- Independence Day.
312- Tarythe's Birthday.
316- Heather's Birthday.
318- Jason's Birthday. Tarythe's Anniversary.
321- Pioneer Day.
339- Cassidy's Birthday.
342- Joyce's Birthday.
365- September 6, 2007.

forgotten nightmares

It's not news that I have strange and disturbing dreams. Ted commented that what I casually call dreams most people would label nightmares. I shrugged. Like I said, it's not news. As far as I can remember--and my memory is pretty good--the nightmares started over two years ago, the summer I went home after Freshman year.

The foremost theme was death or otherwise negatively associated leaving of a loved-one. I became firmly convinced by my subconscious that I had a fear of abandonment. I began to notice in my interactions with others that I fully expected them to leave. The times when I have been proven wrong mean more to me than seems normal on the outside perhaps.

There was the trek of Fat Man's Misery in Zions where Ted hiked with me far behind the others. Bryan never left my side as I learned to ski, wiping-out at every turn. Debi stuck to my side as I grew sick from dehydration. And Kevin sat in the heat while multiple locksmiths attempted to break into my rental car.

These all seem like trivial events, and maybe they are, but something interesting to note is that I no longer dream that I am being left. While my nightmares may be scary and frustrating, I do not wake afraid. I have become so used to it being true that even in my dreams those that matter stay.

oops

I got this email from another supervisor at work today, reporting on last night's business:

"Slow most of the shift. It picked up right before closing.
A note to all those with tills. Peter said not to let any one else ring up besides you and he said that because he is very smart. Do not let anyone else touch the tills.
We had a major problem tonight,
Bottom line, I enjoyed this job while it lasted."

They say a word to the wise is more than sufficient. I won't leave my register for anything! Wow.

it counts

I felt like a Sesame Street special, sitting on the tile floor opening box after box and simply counting the contents. I used no upper-level math, I did nothing particularly skillful. I simply counted.

The mind-numbing process began after eleven PM, the inventory crew having been christened with Mountain Dew just before. The assignments were given, and I smiled sympathetically at the boy whose task it was to spend the next hour and a half in the walk-in freezer, while I got to be warm and comfortable in the dry goods stock room. The time passed quickly enough for those of us in the "Cage". We all joked and talked. Sometimes the laughs would come a minute or so late because the listener's focus had been so intent on not losing count. That was the worst. Was I on 36 or 46? Damn!

Soon even the Dew and the company lost their power to help and the counting just didn't seem as interesting as it had when we started. That's one! One hour! That's two. Two hours...Three. . . I got home at three o'clock in the morning absolutely exhausted. Sleep, however, didn't seem as restful as it might have were I not continuing the inventory in my dreams. A room with imaginary dimensions can be quite full of strange and scary items that need counting.

So why did I do it? I asked myself that question when I almost fell asleep before ten last night while waiting for my shift to start. I knew why I was doing it. Because I had said I would. The money didn't matter, not really, and I didn't need the practice (I'm almost quite certain I have my numbers down). I did it to impress the boss man, to make him see I am cooperative, willing to help and a hard and dedicated worker. I have my eye on his job, after all. It paid off too, when I got the email thanking me profusely for a job well done. I am now in even greater favor with the Powers that Be at work, a good thing when I'm taking the weekend off last minute. So, I'm glad I did it after all, because it counted for something.

Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

hands down

re·cid·i·vism A tendency to lapse into a previous pattern of behavior.

Again. Yet. Still.
Whatever.

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

singing my life with his words

I think everyone hears themselves in song lyrics. A good song is one you can sing to or say "dum di dum" when the words escape you. But a great song is one where you wonder how the writer got in your brain. Often it is just a line or two, little tidbits that I collect for my mental scrapbook. Lately I hear a phrase in every song, grin and think, Yeah I know how that feels. But every so often there is an entire song that throbs my heart and spins my mind. There are some songs that reverberate in me every time I hear them.

Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You" reminds me of Atlas Shrugged. I see a girl slouched over with the fatigue of living and fighting. She is in love with an ideal, one that must be embodied in some man, the man she will love, but she is weary with waiting. She is lonely for him.

Vertical Horizon sings the line, "You're waiting for someone to push you away,"in sensuous and disappointed tones. I hear the chorus and see characters from my own book trapped in a montage scene, as if in a movie of my imagination, and I feel powerless to write what I see and feel.

In 1993 I sat in a van for a family road trip to Colorado, our first vacation since our move to Texas. Nora had a Walkman to entertain her, and she let me listen to one song on it. Dreams by the Cranberries. It haunted me, and though I'm certain I didn't understand it, I did remember it. I heard it again five years later on the soundtrack to You've Got Mail. I sat up in my living room while the movie played and begged to know what that song was I was hearing. Years have passed and I hear it now and then on the radio. It still haunts me but means more to me now. The lyrics are simple, but I feel as if they are mine.

For Good. Tell me, my friends, have you ever seen me get through this song without crying? I finally drove to Target and bought the CD just because I knew I needed to have that song near at hand for all those times when I recall my friends with nostalgia and loneliness.

These songs are ones that I respect for the depth at which they strike me, but the point of this blog was actually my amusement at what other songs I have heard myself in lately. As each selection on the radio follows the last, my ears perk up and I think stupidly, yeah that's so true. Maybe it is the mood I have been in lately and this feeling of pseudo-intellectualism will pass. All the same, it seems a bit silly that I can suddenly "get" Celine Dion.

when nora cries, or how i fear the l word

Nora's face began that elegant contortion that suggests the imminent onset of tears. I stood and walked with her, interlinking my arm with hers for the small comfort that contact can bring. My heart melted, pooling somewhere around where her tears puddled. She didn't get her loan, for one thing. And oh how I know the frustration and ache that money can cause. Luckily I have unshakable faith in my mom that told me Nora didn't have to cry over lost financing. Sure enough mom called within a minute to offer a check, only one question asked: how much? No, something else had to be hurting Nora. He's not talking to me. What?! I managed to make it sound soft and concerned though a beast in my chest was roaring for blood. Someone--not some indefinable source of frustration, but an actual person whom I could conceivably hurt--had wounded Nora!

I cannot stand to see those I love in pain. This week has already been difficult for me in that respect. I saw Emilie cry when I couldn't make it all better, her tears giving heat to my heart that made it possible to hate my second-best friend, if only momentarily. Then there's the now almost-constant shadows in Caitie's eyes. No, I don't mean under her eyes. I mean just what I said. Cassidy's sick and Debi is constantly struggling. And now Nora.

Nora is special. She tries to be so tough, so strong and indomitable, but really she is rather soft and brittle. When she gets hurt, truly hurt by someone she loves, she never views him or her the same way again. While she dances through life in a normal manner, her soul looks with large pleading eyes at the offender as if to say, why? Why did you betray me when all I wanted was to love you? Man, it rips your heart to shreds. Mom slapped her for swearing, with Dad it was when our family fell apart and he kept secrets from us, Heather moved out on her in Boston, and I didn't get her noodles. Now he, that boy (said with all venom possible), isn't speaking to her because he is angry.

Is it just me, or shouldn't it be a little shocking that the weekend after she flies to see him, after they exchange the L-word, he should suddenly transform into Mr. Angry? So why doesn't it shock me? Because that is what I have come to expect. Oh cynical Audrey, my good sweet optimistic and romantic self says as she shakes her head sadly, what happened to the happily ever after you just witnessed with your friend Tarythe? Surely you don't mean-- but here I cut her off.

I have witnessed too many friends use that word or have that word whispered to them only to have their hearts broken mere moments later. I want to ask, so what does that mean to you, the words "I love you"? Dictionary dot com has ten definitions, but I want yours. Does it mean that you love me forever even when you don't like me and that you'll make it your goal to try to make me happy all my days; or does it mean that you really like hanging/making out with me until such a time as real or imaginary offense is taken or given; or does it mean that you want to show that you're a sensitive guy by sharing how much it's going to hurt you to break my heart into pieces when you say Goodbye in about ten minutes? Really what does it mean to you?

As I say this I look almost challengingly at my softer self, demanding a response. Her eyes brim with tears, and once again I am saddened that someone is hurt, not able to do anything even though she is I. I hope, she whispers, showing yet again how determined she is to be good, I hope you're wrong. I see that she believes me; after all it is too easy to convince my vulnerable side to be afraid of never being loved. But I shake my head with fatigue. I hope I'm wrong too.

Wrong or right I am now facing time as the zealously protective guardian of my loved ones. It's not a role to which I have ever been assigned; it just kind of happens. Perhaps I am merely a defensive person, but honestly I try not to take offense at life and her offerings. When it comes to people I love, however, when it comes to Nora, I just won't stand for some things.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

blast

I got an interesting email this week. Okay, the email itself was poorly written and so full of noncommittal small talk that I felt bored in the two seconds it took me to read the stupid thing. Hey. How are you. I'm the same. How's life. Mine's good. Ask Emilie, this is not an exaggeration. What made it less boring and more painfully annoying was the name signed at the bottom. Jon. I haven't heard from him in nine months, since the last time he sent an email entitled How's Life? Jon is a nice guy, a really good guy, but I have a complete lack of curiosity when it comes to him. I wanted to reply civilly to the letter, to prove that I too am a classy person, but then came the rub. Do you mind if I read your blog now so I can see how you're doing? No! You still cannot read my blog. The heat flared up again almost instantly as I recalled my anger at his intrusion a year ago. It's quite ridiculous, really, that I can't let go of past emotions. But isn't that what he's doing too? Why this fascination with my blog when we haven't spoken for a year? If he wants to know how I am, he can ask...or better yet ask Ted. He can ask Emilie who can ask me. She and I can have a nice chat, a quarter of which can be passed back up the line.

I'd like to call his curiosity annoying or to label him pathetic, but such a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.